


In Heart and Mind

by flamingosarepink



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Complicated Relationships, Love/Hate Relationship, M/M, Rivals to Lovers, There is Daniel/Max if you look hard enough, This is what I write when Max says Ferrari stopped cheating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 01:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21365713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flamingosarepink/pseuds/flamingosarepink
Summary: The first time he realizes that things that aren’t all that he would imagine them to be is when Pierre casts a look that Charles can’t place at him in the line up before the anthem in Austria, before looking away once Max notices. Its something that Charles blissfully forgets as he stands on the podium for his second place, but something that burrows in his thoughts even as he falls into bed with Max. His rival, the victorious one.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen, Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	In Heart and Mind

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as an idea that just would not leave me alone. Title is taken from the opera Eugene Onegin, by Tchaikovsky.

There are times when Charles can’t help but think about the situation he’s gotten himself in, so deeply devoted to his sport that he throws himself into wholeheartedly. It’s everything he’s ever wanted. Flying from country to country week in and week out, hearing the crowd yell his name at levels bordering on devotion while being showered in Champagne from all directions. People calling him the latest Ferrari prodigy. 

Yet, there’s an emptiness inside of him that he can’t place. An emptiness that jumps out at him at the most inopportune moments. 

The first time he realizes that things that aren’t all that he would imagine them to be is when Pierre casts a look that Charles can’t place at him in the line up before the anthem in Austria, before looking away once Max notices. Its something that Charles blissfully forgets as he stands on the podium for his second place, but something that burrows in his thoughts even as he falls into bed with Max. His rival, the victorious one. 

Max and Pierre couldn’t be more different. Pierre is a gentle comfort, a reminder of hot Summer days spent with windows thrown open making declarations of future dreams. Max is a way of losing one’s self, throwing yourself into the very things that drive you mad. 

“Did you really think you could win?” Max says breathily against Charles’s ear in the darkness of Max’s hotel room, a hand in his hair pulling the other’s head back to lay bare the expanse of Charles’s throat just so. “You were close, so close. But you couldn’t overtake me. You couldn’t do it.” 

“Just watch,” Charles says, unyielding before Max presses him into the mattress. “Next time I will.” A warning. 

Its a warning that Max doesn’t heed in Silverstone.

Charles gets a dream start, pulling away although Max is never far behind him. He always seems to be in the Monegasque’s peripheral vision, never far behind and seemingly goading in order to make Charles push the car that much closer into making a mistake. But Charles knows better. On the eleventh lap, Max thinks it the appropriate moment to strike as he dives down inside before thinking better of it to go around on the outside. But by then, Charles has started to pull away again. 

Through gritted teeth does Charles drive into the pit on lap fourteen, never taking his eyes off of the Red Bull in front of him. He finds something himself threatening to boil over, the words of Max’s in bed taunt never completely leaving him once they go wheel to wheel on their pit lane exit only for Max to get the edge out in front of him. Once back out on the track, Max begins to pull away again. Of all the the things Charles will ever do, what one of them won’t be will be letting the other have it that easy. They go wheel to wheel again, and by the time that they turn into Brooklands, Charles is once again out in front. 

But Max doesn’t let him forget it on lap nineteen, trying to take advantage of whatever kind of opportunity that he thinks he sees. Charles urges the car forward in his mind as he tries his luck, willing the car to stay on the track and somehow not end up in the grass or worse. _Somehow Leclerc stayed ahead!_

With 15 laps to go Max’s race is more or less over, lost somewhere in the gravel he skidded into when rear ended by Sebastian. Charles is third, with Pierre splitting the two of them in fourth. He cannot imagine that Max is particularly happy about it, even less so when Pierre throws a fond smile in Charles’s direction.

It’s a fond smile that turns into one clouded with frustration when both of them do not finish the race in Hockenheim. Max wins, and Charles doesn’t have it in him to face the Dutch driver or his taunts. He finds it a relief when Max also does not come looking for him that night. Charles can only guess where he is, remembering the long running secret that has something to do with a certain Australian. 

Even though he fares better in Hungary, Max finishes above him yet again in P2 while Charles finishes in fourth. Pierre is not far behind in sixth and after finishing their post race commitments they leave together, falling quite easily into old habits. Dinner, a drink, and in the end Charles is the one that closes the distance between them once they duck into Pierre’s hotel room, the door closing with a soft click. There’s a familiarity to all of this that makes him smile against the lips of the Frenchman, hands in his hair. 

Wandering hands lead to clothes cast away carelessly and waking with tangled legs in the morning along with promises to see each other again soon sealed with a kiss before parting to catch flights home.

A feeling that Charles can’t quite place greets him once he arrives home in Monaco. Even after a few days it doesn’t leave him entirely. But he dismisses it, settling back into the routine that comes along with being at home for longer than four days before having to leave again. Yet, that feeling comes bubbling back once he hears a knock at his door and Max is on the other side of it. 

“I don’t understand.” Charles says with a somewhat confused air at his unannounced arrival, walking to his seat back at the bar counter in the kitchen after the door closes. He takes a sip of the water that he had temporarily abandoned.

“You’re unforgettable in a few different ways.” Max’s reply seems normal enough as he stands on the other side of the bar, the kind of reply that on any other night would ignite something in Charles. 

But tonight is not that night.

“I know about you and Pierre.” 

Max grins razor sharp at Charles from across the bar counter, Charles not giving him so much as an inkling of his uneasiness as he looks at the other over the top of his glass. Something flutters inside of him, like a bird ensnared yearning to be free. Charles sets his glass down. Calm, cool and collected contrary to the frenzied panic of his immediate thoughts.

“Pierre is my childhood friend.” Charles says matter of factly.

“Now I know you’re not that oblivious. I know what i’m looking at when I see it,” Max begins as he leans in, close enough that Charles can see the intense blues of his eyes and smell the bitterness of the words on his tongue. “I see how he looks at you across the paddock and you pretend not to notice.” 

“You’re mistaken.”

Max withdraws, walking the short distance to the door before speaking over his shoulder as he leaves. “Time will tell if i’m right.”

Charles doesn’t respond. He waits several minutes after the door softly clicks shut to finally crack, the sound of his rapid breathing intermixing with the soft sounds of the traffic and waves lapping against the marina boardwalk below.

The sky is dotted with iron grey clouds come Spa, and it’s one of the worst weekends going back as far as Charles can remember, heavy with loss and grief. Pre-race chatter is soft, nothing like the chorus of voices that one might normally hear in the controlled chaos of any other race day. Charles accepts the condolences that people send him with a quiet, barely audible thank you. In the quiet, not quite seclusion of an empty stairwell does Max hold Charles in an embrace sealed with a kiss to the forehead that lingers longer than it should in public- more tender than anything he has given to Charles prior. As Max leaves and their tangled fingers come undone, he casts a sympathetic almost fond glance over his shoulder before disappearing down the corridor. 

Something in Charles knows that it was never meant to last. 

Despite the immediate things clouding his mind Charles crosses the finish line with the Silver Arrows not far behind him and the memories of loved ones held close to his heart.

Monza arrives with much fanfare as it always does.

Charles is hungry for another win, eager to get a taste of that feeling again which you can’t taste once without wanting it again. It just so happens that this time its in front of a sea of red, erupting into loud applause for every overtake. He pushes the car to its absolute limit, and is shown a black and white flag on the twenty-third lap as Lewis is forced off the track to the escape road. 

In the end, he crosses the finish line greeted by rapturous delight. 

_Who can’t be overtaken now? Where are you?_ The voice in the back of his mind says, uncharacteristically in a way Charles doesn’t entirely recognize.

“Who are you, Charles?” Pierre asks gently later that night, a hand absentmindedly stroking Charles’s hair. The question is loaded. He supposes that its a natural question after how the race went- driving in the same manner that left people scared when Paganini had come back to his hometown after having disappeared, suddenly able to play violin with an intensity only known by virtuosos. 

“The same person that i’ve always been.” Charles declares as his eyes look to find Pierre’s in the darkness of the hotel room, voice soft against the skin of Pierre’s chest. He can feel the rise and fall of Pierre’s breathing and the beating of his heart against his ear pulls him that much closer to sleep. In some ways, it reminds him of the times of the past. The times when they were younger, when Pierre would be adamant that one day they would make to the pinnacles of Formula One together. Here they are, yet it hasn’t happened the way that they thought it would. But they are here together nevertheless. 

“How can you be so happy at Toro Rosso?” A loaded question for a loaded question. Charles asks it genuinely, knowing that he himself could never be happy anywhere else but at the top, at this hallowed team of red. He half expects Pierre to stiffen, to take his question somehow as a slight against his skill. Yet he doesn’t stiffen, and Charles still feels fingers carding through his hair and himself getting more tired. 

“Sometimes, there are things more important than winning. At the end of the day, I’m happy I still have a seat.” Pierre replies, voice a whisper and ever so understanding. Charles however, does not understand it knowing that this is the difference between them.

\- - - - 

Charles finds the familiarity of his flat a godsend after his flight back from the US with a fourth place for his troubles, dwelling on it even if it change anything because it keeps him hungry for more. However something about Monaco in this time of evening with lights illuminating the street, the sight of the calm water and the faint sound of Jazz music from a bar near his building soothes his nerves more than just about anything ever could.

He leaves his luggage by the foot of the bed in his room full well knowing he will unpack it later, heading for the shower and afterwards falling into the soft comfort that only being in your own bed can bring. Soon enough he drifts off in a state of relaxed bliss.

At some point he wakes up enough to become aware of the feeling of the bed dipping under the weight of someone slipping under the covers beside him and the gentlest of kisses to his forehead.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspiration for this fic found me in the form of three pieces from the libretto of three of my favorite operas, all with the theme of love albeit portrayed in different ways:
> 
> Do you not know  
that sometimes lovers,  
confused and trembling,  
are blind to those they love,  
and cannot speak?
> 
> Orfeo ed Euridice || Gluck
> 
> You were dreaming of another,  
one who pleased you much more  
in heart and mind!
> 
> Eugene Onegin || Tchaikovsky
> 
> As they seethe  
and roar about me,  
shall I breathe,  
shall I give ear?
> 
> Tristan und Isolde || Wagner


End file.
